***
“Arwena!” Tir shouted, weaving through the throng of fighting wolves. “ARWENA!”
It was no use. He couldn’t even hear himself. Tir scanned the hollow for his mother’s tawny pelt. She was nowhere in sight, but Tir’s mind kept sending him terrible images of her lying motionless on the wet, blood-spattered ground.
He jerked his head, angry with himself. No. He had gone through this before—she was not dead. He would find her, and take her away from the deadly battle hollow. Tir’s only concern was for his mother—she was too old and weak to last in battle. At the moment, he could not think about the renegade or Seilo; he could not think about Captain Leron and poor Xelind, both fighting to kill…
“Arwena!” he shouted again, knowing that it was useless.
Tir came to a halt, his head hanging low. Had she run away? Was she one of the many motionless bodies he had stepped over in his frantic search? Tir almost cried out in despair.
Something large and white came tearing out from the undergrowth, knocking Tir flat against the snowy ground. He gasped, spitting cold snow out of his mouth as he tried to stand. But he was knocked down again, and sharp claws began to rip his fur. White sparks of pain crackled through his body. It was a few moments before Tir’s mind cleared enough for him to realize that he was being attacked.
He rolled to the side, snapping his fangs in the air as he went and ripping his attacker down the sides, then he jumped to his paws as the wolf snarled in pain. Blood was running down his throat—hot and sticky and reeking of death. He paused, staring at the crimson snow beneath his paws. It was then that he realized he was dripping with blood—his own, Leron’s, Xelind’s, and the blood of countless unknown others he had splashed through in his dashes through the hollow. It caked his fur in crimson spikes, dripped in his eyes, seeped into his mouth and trickled down his legs. He stood frozen, motionless with numb horror.
His legs were slashed from beneath him, sending him flying into a crumpled heap. Little shards of pain pierced his flesh like glass. He curled into a tight knot in the snow, heart pounding with horrified confusion at what he had done and almost done, not wanting to shed any more blood, not wanting to find himself in the situation where he may have to kill someone—to take a life. His confrontation with Leron and the horrible scene that had passed between the captain and Xelind had stripped him of all will to fight, to snarl and bare his fangs. He closed his eyes, motionless, and the blows stopped.
The weight of his attacker was removed from him, and someone was sniffing his ear suspiciously.
“Oh, dead already?” a rough voice muttered, poking him in the sides. “No, no, ‘tis still alive…what a sodden coward.”
Tir knew that voice. He opened one eye, only to discover that he was face-to-face with the other wolf, whose pale green eyes were still sparking. He recoiled in shock, and his attacker jumped back, hissing.
“You AGAIN?” the renegade said. “What must I do to be rid of you?”
“Nothing!” Tir said, struggling to his paws. “I don’t want to fight you, just let me be—”
“No, don’t you go anywhere; I haven’t quite finished with you yet.”
“Leave me alone,” Tir said, turning to glare at her. “I’m not afraid of you, renegade. But I won’t fight you. I’m done with fighting, done with blood, from now until—”
“Be quiet. Tell me, did you tell your alpha what I told you? About the deer?”
“Yes,” he said. “I tried; I told her everything! She didn’t believe me. It was too late. But I did try—”
“Trying makes no difference. ‘Tis too late now for anything. The deer are gone.”
“W—What?”
“They’ve travelled away, you idiot!” she growled. “And listen to me—I promised them that by the time they return, this land will be as clean and safe as clover meadow. Understand?”
“I—”
“The next time you see your leech of an alpha, you will tell her that. Tell her that I shall get rid of all of you; I’ve finished playing chasing games with pups.”
Tir nodded, his heart pounding, though a part of him was relieved. That meant that Alpha Liyra was still alive, at least to the renegade’s knowledge.
“Have you seen her?” he asked, anxiety creeping into his voice. The renegade’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t want her killed,” Tir explained. “I don’t want any of them killed. I can’t—”
“We’re not getting into this again,” the renegade said. “I’m not fool enough to believe that your pack will leave me alone once you win the battle. No! The first thing you shall do is make sure I’m killed, no?”
“We won’t win,” Tir said. “No one’s going to win. Palva said the moon—”
“Oh, so you’ve noticed it, too, then?” the renegade interrupted, surprised. “The bloodfire moon? ‘Tis an omen; it means we’re all going to die?”
“I don’t—”
“Of course it doesn’t!” she snarled, rising. “Idiots! All of you! You think this battle is set in stone because the moon’s wearing a different face? You’re no better than the deer. Well, of course the prophecies shall all be fulfilled if you can’t be bothered to fight them—have you considered that?”
“What do you know about prophecies?” Tir asked, suspicious.
“Everyone has a prophecy of some sort,” she said in disgust. “I should say your alpha even has one. They’re all over the place, miserable things, dropping from the sky like hail—”
Tir wasn’t listening any more. A prophecy… He’d heard that word before. Hadn’t Palva been muttering about some prophecy a long time ago, when he was freshly wounded from the forest fire? Yes, she had—just after speaking with Alpha Liyra. What had they been talking about? Tir wracked his brain, knowing this had to be important… Him. They had been talking about him.
He gasped.
“…But you mark my words, packwolf. I shall make an end to this, prophecy or not. Oh, there’s nothing written in the stars, nothing that the bloodfire moon—”
“Wait!” Tir interrupted. “What do you know about the fire-moon? Who told you?”
“The deer. They’ve known ‘twas coming for a time now, they say.”
Tir closed his eyes, heart pounding. Palva had known the fire-moon was coming, too, bringing battle with it. She had known it would be dangerous to hunt the deer. And she had known that he would be able to speak with the renegade, that she would listen to him, if anyone. She had also known that she could not let him leave her pack—so they had held him prisoner, however long it had lasted.
He had to find Palva.
“I need to go,” he muttered distractedly, turning around. “There’s someone I need to talk to.”
“Wait a moment,” the renegade said. “You should know something. My pack—”
“They’re not your pack.”
She raised her brow. “And so they aren’t. Might you know whose pack are they?”
Tir swallowed. “They’re mine,” he said. “And they need me.”
“I thought so. You know, I would admit that I never did see ravens above the ridge. When I said it, ‘twas a lie.”
Tir stared. She surveyed him, green eyes narrow. Tir shifted and looked away, again getting the uneasy feeling that she was reading his thoughts.
“Is your mother here?” she asked suddenly.
“Y—yes, I think she is,” he stammered.
“I want to see her. Where is she?”
“I don’t—”
But at that moment, a howl echoed across the hollow. They both looked up, ears forward and alert. Tir did not know how he had been able to hear that particular cry over the furious sounds of the battle, but it resounded in his ears as loudly as if it had come from right beside him. The renegade heard it, too. And from the other side of the battle hollow, the black alpha Misari raised his head, orange eyes sharp.
“Arwena,” hissed the renegade.
Tir looked to the edge of the battle cleari
ng, and his chest filled up with ice-cold fear. Captain Leron was dragging something matted and tawny into the brush. He met Tir’s eye; he saw Tir and the renegade together, watching him. He shook his head sorrowfully around a mouthful of Arwena’s fur as if he had some terrible news he’d rather not deliver.
Tir knew exactly what Leron wanted, but he didn’t care. He lurched to his feet and dashed after them, the renegade running at his side.